One Deduction Too Far
by wendymarlowe
Summary: "John, you're gay!" The words erupted without Sherlock realizing he'd said them aloud, until John's sudden glare called his attention to it. (In other words: Sherlock's got no tact whatsoever, John's furious, and the Yarders are about to have some very interesting water cooler conversation.)


Sherlock knew from the moment they stepped into the warehouse that this would be one of those tedious, legwork-heavy cases. The proof was in the mud patterns on the floor - several assailants, four at least, two of whom very definitely knew what they were doing. Possibly a paid hit, more likely a business message to a rival crime lord. Not that the dead man was all that high up the ladder, judging by his feet (calluses, spent a lot of time standing, poorly-fitted shoes, couldn't afford better), but presumably he reported to someone more important.

"John!" He didn't bother looking behind him, could practically sense John's presence as they approached the body. "Tell me what you see."

John expelled a harsh breath - annoyed at being ordered about, but willing to obey anyway - and crouched over the dead man. "Late forties, maybe? Dead no more than an hour - most of the blood is still tacky. _Not _-" - he glanced over at Lestrade - "- that I'm touching it, Greg, just an observation."

Lestrade nodded. "Caller said she heard yelling just about an hour ago. Officers got here ten minutes later, saw this, and called us."

"Right."

John glanced up at Sherlock, clearly trying to gauge his reaction, but Sherlock was more interested in seeing what else John had learned to notice. "Continue, please."

"Right." John said again. "Yelling indicates he was conscious, at least. Hard to tell with the blood in the way, but I _think _these marks are consistent with just fists. Large ones. This one here caught him by surprise - if he'd have been ready for the punch to the stomach, he would have tensed his abdominal muscles and been fine. He worked out - he'd have known. He didn't tense up, though, and the punch probably did some major internal damage. Same thing that killed Harry Houdini."

He kept talking, but Sherlock's mind raced ahead. Suddenly a whole new avenue of thought sprung into existence, all stemming from John. Amazing, wonderful _John_. Who was gamely trying to deduce the murderers' intentions, even though he missed almost everything of relevance to the case at hand. The things he did notice, though . . .

"John, you're gay!" The words erupted without Sherlock realizing he'd said them aloud, until John's sudden glare called his attention to it.

"I'm not-"

"Bisexual, then." Oh, it was so _clear _now! "I suspected, of course, but I never thought you'd prove my hypothesis one way or the other. Your observations of the deceased man's abdominal musculature, though, speak to a familiarity with the male form which goes quite beyond what's expected for the medical field. Your word choice, specifically - you've spent time admiring men's musculature in the past. In detail."

"Sherlock, I'm not-"

"It's _blatantly obvious!_ You've been denying it ever since we met and I thought I misunderstood your question about whether I was single or not, but I didn't really misunderstand, did I? You handled that incredibly well - you fooled me. I didn't know you had it in you to lie that well. And ever since then, you've assumed I was asexual, an impression I didn't bother to correct, why would I, it's not like I was seeking out sex elsewhere, definitely not a relationship, not when I already had you so conveniently nearby. You always seemed amenable to the more platonic aspects of a relationship so I neglected to pursue anything sexual, didn't want to ruin it. But you didn't want to ruin it either." The words were running together, now, spilling out of his mouth almost as fast as his brain was putting the connections together. "_I'm not gay._ Technically true, if you define 'gay' as exclusively seeking out male partners, although misleading since 'gay' can also be an umbrella term for any same-sex inclinations or partnerships. You're not 'gay,' you're bisexual, so you didn't even have to lie."

"_Sherlock_." John was standing, now, arms crossed, glaring, but Sherlock was too far along to stop.

"So, yes, you're 'gay,' but you never brought it up. Why, you might ask? Because you were afraid of rejection. Convinced that I was asexual and would turn you down. If you were to proposition me and I truly didn't have any homosexual tendencies, you were worried I'd potentially say no and do something embarrassing like make a . . . big . . . scene . . ."

Sherlock let his focus - and his words - trail away as his surroundings finally re-registered. Big scene. Crime scene. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and half a dozen crime technicians all staring at him with wide eyes and gaping mouths. And John, glaring daggers and so angry he could barely speak. John, closing his mouth and spinning on his heel and storming away, out the nearest exit from the warehouse, favoring his leg slightly.

"Shit." Sherlock rarely swore, but the situation merited it.

Lestrade covered his mouth and coughed, effectively breaking the fraught silence. Donovan and Anderson continued to stare, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered to waste brainpower on them. All that mattered now was catching John, finding him and apologizing and explaining and maybe grovelling, if it became necessary. It didn't take a genius to know that he'd just screwed up, big-time. Sherlock caught Lestrade's glance, just for a moment, then took off for the door John had just exited.

Anderson's voice drifted out behind him. "Did he just . . ."

"Oi, back to work, you lot," Lestrade's voice answered. "Looks like we've got this one on our own."


End file.
